Genesis of a Monster
by Sekah
Summary: The origin of Karasu is a twisted, convoluted thing. He is a man, and a product of experience, as we all are. Why talk of sin?


My father was a powerful man, and the only being other than myself I have ever truly loved.

Or perhaps I loved the power; I cannot tell any longer.

_Pretty thing, such a pretty little thing._

In the cold nights, by the fire, when he dragged a man or woman to be His for the evening, he'd say Karasu, look away.

I did, solemnly. But the mewling, pleading, screaming, entwined in my consciousness. That was what he taught me, the man whose seed impregnated a cheap whore in dockside of a small Makaian city, Rengar.

That was the origin of my love.

I was hungry, as an infant. I remember that. My mother, bitch that she was, used to rebuff all attempts at affection, slap me and push me away when I toddled to her, shake me and offer me to the most perverse of clients in her stead.

I do not subjugate women because I often hear my mother's voice in their desperate pleas, see my mother's face in their dewy eyes. It fills me with disgust, like a john whose lust fades, and gets so angry with what he's done he beats the whore and throws it away from him, or simply kills it and runs.

I looked nothing like my mother; she was a used-up old hag of a water nymph, though men found her stunning, beautiful. I had my father's power, the power of the Quest Class, and already I was making creations with gunpowder, little things I used to torture animals and other children of the brothels. I scarred one boy who ran to his Grandfather, one of the owners of the cathouse my mother worked at. It was a bad mistake. He had me beaten to the edge of death, the very rim of it, and chained, still bleeding and delirious with fever, for the use of pedophiles and sadists.

I overheard my mother tell a friend she was glad I was out of her hair one day. They'd put me in a room above her own, and I'd clawed through the stone and wood so I could hear her voice.

Something died in me that day. I could feel it wither, and break away, like a flower fading and drying up. And perhaps I would still be brothel trash if it weren't for my father.

He returned to the cathouse. Feeling an energy similar to his, he walked through the brothel to my dungeon. I remember when he entered. I was afraid of him; I'd not yet learned to cull my fear. He was powerful, and crouched before me. I thought he would rape me. Instead, he asked, "Boy, who is your mother?"

I was not yet twenty-five years old. In terms of human development, the correlating age was about eight.

He killed my mother while I watched, called her _stupid whore,_ and carried me away from that place, blowing apart the whorehouse's hired muscle who tried to stop him. I returned in adulthood and blew it to smithereens, tortured the boy, now man, who'd consigned me to hell, destroyed his Grandfather, soul and all. There is nothing but a crater where that hovel used to be.

He took me to a place by a river where the current was strong, but the water clear, and made camp, cleaning and wrapping my wounds. Thus began my education.

Beauty, he told me, and control, are the marks of a man. He schooled me in my own proud legacy as a crow tengu, and the codes of behavior a man of the Quest Class should follow. He caught me playmates, children from here or there to use as practice for hunting and fighting. I played with them as a cat plays with their food, torturing them as he looked on in approval.

I grew older, and stronger, gaining a sense of confidence and my true superior worth that only Toguro has broken through. He brought me dolls - porcelain, soulless things that suited my tastes perfectly - and brushed my hair, braided it, as though I were a doll instead. He called me beautiful, and doll. He let me comb his hair, sometimes, when I'd pleased him. It was a fascinating shade of midnight black, so close to my own.

I believe, after a certain age, I wanted to fuck him. He encouraged the notion, but never touched me sexually. Perhaps he would have, had I grown to adulthood and left his care in the normal way. I do not know. My time with him was to be shortlived.

He was killed in front of my very eyes, you see. I remember the loss I felt, the sense that if only, if only I could have done it myself, this aching wound inside of me would be healed. I was taken, but I touched the chest of one when he lay me roughly on his bedroll and blew out his heart, running back to where they'd left my father.

Knowing I could do nothing for the whole body before they caught me, I cut off his head, and carried it away.

I carried it for days, until my feet were bruised and I could barely stand for fatigue and hunger. I stopped then and kissed him gently, searchingly on the lips, tasting his blood, in a grove touched golden by the setting sun.

I carried father's severed head until the blubbery, stinking flesh had all withered away, leaving a clean white skull. When that started to fragment, I used to slide the pieces into my mouth, suck them clean, and swallow them, wanting him inside me.

It was a hard, desperate scrabble for existence. I lost his head when an enemy crushed it beneath his heel and dragged me away. I killed him, but that was a year later. I never found where the last bones of my father lay.

In mid-adolescence, when my beauty began to solidify, demons began to take notice of me in ways both new and old for me. To escape the constant threat, I contracted myself with the lesser of nine or ten evils.

He was eager, and taught me true cruelty through his own. Eventually, when I was old enough, and strong enough, I segmented and killed him, laughing as I went. And then I was finally ready for my first fledgeling attempt at transformation.

He was a wind demon, a laughing, joyous thing. He teased me, and tried to coax me into his world of air and sun. I found I enjoyed the look on his face when I controlled him, when I beat him. I enjoyed showing that carefree thing how frightening and twisted the world was, and manipulated him mercilessly. Finally, he tried to leave, to run from me.

Like my childhood playmates, I chased him down, tortured him brutally, though clumsily, for it was my fledgeling attempt.

I fucked him then, first his mouth, then his ass, and at the height of climax, while he twisted to get away, I snapped his neck.

It was beautiful; it was perfect. The intimacy I felt with him was unparalleled. Witnessing his soul separate itself from his body, knowing that now, no one could take him from me, made me so hot I took him again, in death.

Before long I no longer craved anything but that fleeting moment of intimacy. Attempting a lover was more delicate - attempting a toy, well, that was infinitely more dangerous, infinitely more fun.

And it all melded, somehow. The feel of the strands of my father's hair when he let me brush and braid it. The bruised, tormented lips of the wind demon as I shoved my cock through them, looking straight into his horrified green eyes. The rough stone of the dungeon beneath my knees as I knelt in manacles that chafed and blistered my skin. The treetops lit with a heavenly glow as I caressed father's lips with my own, and the coppery taste of his life's blood oozing into my mouth.

Why talk of sin, brother? This is the world as I know it.

_Pretty thing, such a pretty little thing._

Why talk of sin?


End file.
